


Game Over, Ringo

by Marcabelle



Category: The Beatles (Band), The Beatles (Cartoon)
Genre: Crack, i dont know wtf this is so dont ask
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:21:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22827082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcabelle/pseuds/Marcabelle
Summary: Ringo gets injured in one of the worst ways possible.George eats a foot long (and no, it's not a sandwich).Paul is in prison.John works for the mafia, probably.A crackfic written by my cousin and me (but mostly me). The former knows absolutely nothing about the Beatles and pronounces it Be-at-lays. I forced her into this. My bad.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

Ringo moaned.

No, not in a sexual way, you sick freak. He was in excruciating pain. The only other reason he was moaning, you weirdo, is because he was in the road. And no, he wasn’t doing it.

He had failed to recall the simplest rule in the book: look both ways before crossing the street. Especially, considering the knowledge of many, that it was late at night. Instead, he neglected this fact and began walking, failing to hear the speeding automobile headed towards his direction. 

So now, he was in the middle of zebra crossing. Bleeding like a walrus bitten by an orca. He did not want to be the walrus. He preferred to be an octopus. What a dork. 

Ringo let out another low grumble. He wished he were somewhere safe instead, longing to hold someone's hand. No one in particular, though. Because that’s hecking gay despite the fact that the female gender exists. ~~But if it could be someone, it would probably be George.~~

Then a random man came upon him, looking down with worry as he scuttled from the sidelines. 

"Hey Jude? Where are you when I'm IN THE ROAD DYING?" Screamed Ringo, a severe hoarseness in his throat.

The man fled in fear because Hey Jude wasn’t Ringo’s song. "Who the hell was that guy?" The man questioned while riding away on a na na na naaa. Eyyyy.

The smallest Beatle hugged his knees to his chest, feeling a snap within his rib cage. God, he didn’t realize how heavy cars were. He was sure his abdomen had exploded, and he begged for mercy. Though we all know no mercy would be coming for him. He crawled out onto something that wasn't the road. Coarse harsh ground.

Lights had appeared from ahead, and little to his own knowledge, Ringo was being hunted by no one but himself.

“Am I going to Heaven already?” The drummer muttered, an obvious rasp growing in his voice. “Tell my kids I love them.”

“No, silly,” a speaker said, his voice familiar. He hopped out of a parked vehicle, and Ringo could barely make out the silhouette of the God himself, Micheal Jackson. As he got out of the car, the clouds parted and doves flew about. Offering a hand, Michael Jackson exclaimed "’Is alright. Come on now, child.” He smiled as a childish “Hee hee” left his lips.

Ringo frowned, recoiling his hand as if he touched something scolding hot. “Wait, aren’t you a pedophile? Who put you in charge of Heaven?”

Jackson sighed, ashamed that the drummer of the Beatles found his hand so atrocious. “I know right. It really is a _Thriller_ that they allowed such a thing. I guess everything’s not just _Black or White_ anymore, huh, _PYT_?”

“Are you trying to fit as many song puns as possible?”

“Is it _Bad_?”

Ringo blinked and looked at the blood spilling from his stomach. He felt a wave of nausea surpass his mind, and he frantically began to claw at the god-like Jackson. “Just take me to a hospital, please!”

Micheal let out another “hee hee” before coughing up a storm—quite literally, I might add. It started to rain, yet Ringo didn’t feel the wetness that began to sog his moptop. “Sorry, little man. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re already in the hospital.”

“Huh?”

And that’s when Ringo finally felt freezing cold water splash across his face before he woke up in a panicked frenzy, shooting up like an octopus out of its garden. He eventually came to and squinted at the harsh hospital lights glaring at him from the ceiling; however a Heavenly silhouette blocked just about half of it, and Ringo turned his vision at the side to look at the shadow of a man instead. He was almost convinced that Jesus was looking back at him based on the sight, but he nearly laughed when he realized how inaccurate he was.

Because the person staring back at him was, in fact, bigger than Jesus.

“Hey,” John beamed almost as brightly as the lights behind him. “He’s awake.”

Ringo spotted George slowly walk over to the hospital bed from his peripheral vision, and he could also very clearly see a sandwich in George’s hand. Paul, however, was nowhere in sight.

Bastard.

“You’re right,” George said at last, finishing the sandwich in one chomping bite. And in an almost teasing tone, he whispered, “welcome back to Earth.”

“How long have I been here?” Ringo attempted to get up, but a feeling of illness and John forcefully pushing him down onto the mattress (again, he did so with his _hand_ you pervs) prevented him from doing so. “And why am I wet?”

John jumped to reply first. “Well, sometimes, when people have certain dreams-”

“We did the ice bucket challenge but with your body,” George concluded, not wanting John to finish that sentence because it would probably cause this story to go over its teen rating.

Satisfied with the explanation, Ringo tossed the explanation aside because he actually wasn’t all that satisfied with it at all. Not that he was a liar to his own thoughts, but he would much rather have the reason be that he was momentarily plopped into a fish tank. But no, he was simply the victim of a charity project.

He opened his mouth to ask again, “How long have I been here? When can I leave?”

“Well, you haven’t been here very long,” John took his time to think of how long the drummer had been in the hospital. “I’d say about two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Ringo was astonished. “I was out for that long?”

John raised a brow. “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

George continued for him. “And you probably won’t be leaving for another couple of days.”

Ringo sunk in his hospital bed, regret welling up in his mind. This was going to be a long day. (Only for John and Ringo, though; George had a cookie.)


	2. Chapter 2

Ringo glared at the heart monitor that continuously beeped at his side. He hated that noise. It was mocking him, and it wasn’t in a “haha” kind of way either. It was more of a “teehee,” if he had to be honest. After all, who wouldn’t find such a situation humorous?

George apparently. That’s who.

“Stop that.” He was talking to John who was childishly copying the noises the machine made.

“Oh, sod off,” John sneered. “You’re just cranky that you finished your snacks already.”

George let out an over dramatic gasp before pulling out a fork and thermos full of warm cup noodles. “How dare you think so lowly of me.”

Ringo fought the urge to roll his eyes. The only person that should be rolling was Beethoven, so Ringo really had to fight. John took notice of this.

“Strain is a bad look on you.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

A brief moment of silence passed over the trio, give or take George’s noodle slurping and the blasted beeping of the heart monitor, but again it was mostly silent. They all eyed each other in a sort of forbidden staring contest, not moving an inch nor a hair. However, Ringo blinked first.

“Where’s Paul?” He asked finally, spitting out the question that the readers who didn’t read the description of this story wondered.

John rocked on his heel as George slurped on his noodle soup. Neither wanted to answer, and they looked everywhere except the drummer’s direction.

Ringo opted for asking again, this time more sternly. “Really, where’s Paul?”

“Well,” John uttered slowly, glancing every so often at George who continued to slurp away at the soup that never ceased to end. “He’s not here.”

~~“Yeah no shit John”~~

Ringo raised a brow. “I can see that. But where is he?”

John leaned against the wall and stared harshly at George. The guitarist was now desperately sucking on air to keep himself occupied and out of the situation. ~~but tbh that wont be the last thing he sucks on in this fic ;))~~ John coughed to get his attention, and George sputtered out the last drops of broth as they dribbled down his chin. Finally, in a shaky breath, he spoke, “Paul’s in jail.”

Ringo sat up in bed and instantly regretted the motion, groaning before leaning back down on the mattress. “Jail? What? How?”

“Don’t worry, Ringo,” John sighed. “You’ll find out next chapter.”

“What”

“What”

“What,” George copied in an attempt to feel included which is surprising because most fans (and even the cartoon, if one must mention it) are Ringophobic for the sake of enjoyment.

Ringo shook his head as the large hospital pillow engulfed him in a pile of softness and feathers. “I just want to get out of here.”

“Relax, kid,” John soothed, ignoring Ringo’s ‘I’m older than you’ protests. “It’s not like we’re replacing you with Pete Best. We got rid of that pain in the ass a long time ago.”

George nodded in agreement, now munching on a waffle. “Yeah, and besides, if we need to bring flowers again, we will.”

John coughed again, almost convincing Ringo that he had the coronavirus. “I dunno, George. That’s kinda gay.”

The waffle muncher shrugged him off. “Shut up. Your boyfriend’s in jail.”

“Hah, you got me there.”

“Hold on,” Ringo turned to look at John who had gone back to copying the beeps of the heart monitor. He looked annoyed that Ringo interrupted him. “If Paul’s in jail and I’m here, who’s gonna fill in for us at that Big Performance™️ we have?”

John and George froze. They forgot about the Big Performance™️ because it was a plot convenience the author added at the last minute.

“Actually, I’m not worried about Paul,” Ringo continued over their epiphany. “We can get that Billy Shears bloke that everyone keeps talking about.”

“Ringo,” George frowned, full of sadness because of the situation and because he dropped his waffle in shock. He pulled out a burrito. “ _you’re_ Billy Shears.”

“Oh, you’re right. I haven’t Wikied it in a while.”

“I guess I take back what I said about Pete Best,” John sat on the end of the hospital bed, accidentally crushing Ringo’s leg. Ringo let out a soft cry, and George patted his head. “We need him.”

“Yeah, okay, _John_ ,” George spat, still patting the smallest Beatle’s head. “And we’ll get Yoko to sing for us, too.”

“Excuse you she’s a great singer.”

“No, she’s not,” Ringo cringed, trying to move his leg. John stayed in place, slowly shifting his weight even more onto Ringo’s leg. A single tear rolled down the drummer’s cheek in excruciating pain, but he said nothing.

John rolled his eyes. “You guys are just pressed.”

“We’re literally not, _JOHN_ ; she’s a personified garbage disposal.”

Ringo gave a distressed look. “Wow, George, that’s pretty harsh.”

“That bitch snatched my biscuits. You bet your ass I’m harsh.”

“No,” Ringo croaked out, looking at the youngest. “My head. You’re hitting me.”

“Oh shit sorry.” George recoiled his hand back to his side, scarfing down the remnants of the burrito.

“Wait, don’t stop.” Ringo muttered, somewhat enjoying the head strokes he was receiving. George didn’t hear him.

John looked up at the clock, eyes suddenly widening at the time. “Shit, they’re gonna find me.”

Ringo stared at him, glad that John finally lept up off of his knee. “Who is?”

“No one important,” John scampered to the window, feverishly shutting the window and drawing the curtains. “I’ll see you both tomorrow.” And with that, he bolted out the door, looking both ways before going left.

Bastard.

“That was…” Ringo began, poking George with his index finger for emotional support.

“Interesting?” the guitarist concluded the statement for him, sitting at the top half of the mattress. Ringo had shift his head to the side because he didn’t want George’s ass in his face.

“Yeah,” Ringo chirped. “Interesting.”

The pair sat in uncomfortable silence. Ringo twiddled with the ends of his pillow while George counted the tiles on the floor, chewing at a piece of cake that he didn’t know he had saved.

“I should probably get going,” George said finally, getting up from the mattress as slowly as possible to avoid giving Ringo whiplash. Ringo was appreciative. “There’s a potluck a few streets away. Won’t want to miss that.”

“No,” Ringo murmured. “You wouldn’t.”

“Maybe we can find a good replacement there,” George joked, heading towards the door. Ringo didn’t find it the slightest bit funny. “See you tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

And Ringo was alone.


	3. Chapter 3

The night was silent. Not a single sound came out of any of the awake creature’s mouths, and the crickets that constantly chirped found their volume far too loud to ruin such a peaceful night. The relaxed feeling that projected itself onto its patrons was momentous, for it was a rarity to have such a blissful evening like this.

Paul found the cool breeze quite pleasing, and he snuck glances every so often at the moon-filled sky that shone outside of his barred cell. He mumbled and frowned despite the pretty sight. How he hated to be in here, rolling around on a dusty floor and wearing a brightly colored jumper. What was he, a first grader? Romphims were most definitely not his style.

He held back a groan, not wanting any clamour to pierce through the air. Instead he slowly shifted on his hard-as-rocks mattress, making sure not to rattle the chains that held the giant, white brick up. This failed however, and he nearly winced at the squeaks his shifting made.

His temptation to complain increased, though, as he heard crunching footsteps draw near his cell. Then the crunching stopped, and Paul whirled his head around. He finally let out a whine when he saw the beefy face of a guard, the nametag brightly glimmering under the dim fluorescent lighting of the stone hallways.

“Resting well, McCartney?” The guard chuckled, though it was more at Paul’s awkwardly twisted position and tousled hair.

Paul turned onto his stomach, glaring at the man the entire time. His eyes suddenly made a beeline for the shining tag. “Well, Carl, I’m not. Wanna know why?”

Carl raised a brow, a look of genuine curiosity painting itself on his face. “Why’s that?”

“Because _Carl_ ,” Paul hissed out the name as if it were a curse, “I’m in a tiny room that smells like piss and ink!”

__

__

The guard tried to coax Paul into retreating back to silence. “Woah, keep your bit dead. It’s dark hours.”

“Really?” Paul moved again, this time opting for sitting up. The pressing sensation on his stomach slowly began to remind him that he hadn’t urinated in a while, and he didn’t want to remember, lest he end up making his tiny room smell more like cat pee. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Carl smiled at his sarcasm. “Aren’t you a laugh.”

“Gee, am I? Maybe you’ll let me go so I can perform at one of those clubs.”

The nightwatch rolled his eyes, the smile not leaving his lips. “You belong in a circus, more like. But don’t worry, we won’t let the spiders get to you.”

Paul froze in place, fear instantaneously projecting itself into his fingertips. “Spiders? What kinds of spiders?”

“Nothing too dangerous. Funnel-webs, redbacks, white-tails, tarantulas… We’ve pretty much got ‘em all.”

Paul could feel himself shrink with every arachnid listed. He let out an uneasy laugh. “Where am I? Australia?”

Carl nodded in an instant. “Where else, boy?”

“Excuse me,” In that moment, Paul no longer cared about the night’s silence nor if there were others enjoying it; he broke it. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M IN BLOODY AUSTRALIA?”

Paul was thankful for the bars. The look that crossed Carl’s face made him think that he would have slapped the living daylights out of him.

“Jesus, are you high? Did you already forget what you did?”

“GET ME OUT OF HERE! I’M TOO PRETTY TO DIE.”

Carl thought the statement over for a second. “I mean, you’re not _wrong_.”

Paul choked on a sob, crawling on the urine-smelling floor to reach his arms out through the bars. “Please, just let me get out of here. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Tell that to the judge, kid.”

Paul lightened up. “I get to talk to the judge?”

“Haha, no. I just like saying that to people. ‘Makes me feel like a real cop.”

The jailbug leaned his head on the bars, puppy-eyes adorning his face. “But you are a real cop.”

“Aw, really?”

“Lol, nah. Sucks to suck, meter maid.”

Carl sneered, “You’re a shithead, McCartney.”

Paul smirked in return, rummaging in his pockets for a quick second before pulling out an Uno Reverse Card. “No u”

The guard let out a chuckle, for he had a card up his own sleeve: skip.

Paul crashed into the ground in defeat. How could he not see this coming?

“Get up, son. The floor’s filthy.”

“Yeah, by my tears.”

“No, seriously. This used to be a bathroom.”

Paul got up in an instant, brushing himself off. “You’re all disgusting.”

The nightwatch defensively raised his arms. “Hey, I’m not the one who crawled on the floor like an animal.”

The lonely Beatle huffed in reply before he shuffled back to his chained mattress, sitting back down before turning to look at the moon again. It was still gleaming as brightly and brilliantly as it did when the evening began. If only he could bask in its beauty outside the cold stone walls. Thoughts of worry and confusion swirled in his mind. He had so many questions to ask (and we’re sure you have some, too), but the words refused to leave his throat as the clarity of the sky hypnotized him. He was again enraptured by the sight, and Paul could almost hear the night return back to its silence.

He wanted to whisper and share out how it was almost as gorgeous as he was, but he feared it would create too much of a commotion. He blinked, turning back to the barely lit hallway to continue his banter with the guard. Instead, Paul was met with emptiness, and he almost pitied the fact that he couldn’t hear Carl’s crunching footsteps as he left. He frowned.

Bastard.

Paul mumbled out a curse before realization hit him. Where were the others? Were John and George going to find and get him? (He didn’t wonder about Ringo because he figured him useless anyway.) And what was he even in for? Paul was never given any chance nor reason to testify, so why the hell was he in a damn jail in Australia?

With a sigh, the bassist lied down onto his prison brick, looking at the moon one last time to make sure it was the final thing he saw before closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it's of any relevance, no, i don't have much idea where this story is headed. but that's okay.


End file.
